now that we are alone?’
‘I say the same thing – bottle green.’
‘And what does that signify Fidelma?’
‘It means that they change colour …’
‘You think I am a Don Juan.’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you shivering?’
‘I am a little afraid just now.’
‘Do you want to call the whole thing off?’
‘No, I want it too much, to not want it.’
‘Then we have crossed the Rubicon,’ he says holding his hand out and she shook it and not long after they went down to dinner.
*
As they were late, the dining room had half emptied and so they were offered a choice of tables. Curtains of glass crystals hung on poles, luminous screens dividing different areas of the room and as they walked, hailstones of pink and violet light danced on whatever they could find. A world of shimmer, tall flowers and grasses in huge metal urns, paintings, drawings, a room into which such taste had been poured. He spoke to the maître d’, who led them to a corner table next to a wine rack that was filled with the empty bottles of vintage wines that had been drunk on festive occasions. Vlad reeled off the various names, the chateaux – Meursault 1962, Chassagne-Montrachet 1972, Lynch-Bages, Margaux, while the eager young waiter, who stood in awe, complimented him on his excellent French. The door to the garden was ajar and she felt, or believed she felt, trees and grass and earth drinking in the moisture.
Everything was being done with ceremony.
Vlad looked at the basket of bread, naming the different varieties and then took a slice of rye bread, telling her that a nice combination was to rub warm rye bread with garlic and lemon rind. He had made bread himself, having grown up in that house of women, when various ancestors had died on the battlefield and later his father, who was a partisan, imprisoned as a traitor. All of it so exotic to her. She did not question it. She did not question the fact that he had been born in Alexandria, but that the family had to leave there in the exodus of 1956. She did not question the fact that he had been in a seminary for four years, wishing to be a priest, to walk the terra sacrata . All she wanted was his arms around her.
‘So we start with the bread and the wine Fidelma,’ and he looked into her eyes as if he was seeing her longings and seeing her soul.
To start with they ordered scallops on a bed of chive foam, which the waiter assured them was delicious, ‘’twas like eating gossamer’.
‘Of course, cooking is all science now because of the gadgets we have,’ he added proudly.
‘But the libido is in the taste buds,’ Vlad said and the young boy rushed off, scarlet.
He ate heartily, said he was a behemoth, whereas his companion ate like a bird. The elderly porter was determined not to leave them alone, coming with this and that, first it was a leaflet which he had printed out, with a picture of the stairs that they had been admiring, pointing to the mahogany newel posts, the ash treading and the side panels with forkfuls of dipping hay. The next time it was to tell them about a series of sculptures called ‘LoveLetters’ in a pasture nearby and how he would run them over there in the morning for a quick decko, if they felt inclined. The strange thing was, as he said, that despite the title, there was no lettering at all, just hoops of variously twisted bronze. Fidelma guessed that he sensed they were not man and wife and this gave a piquance to his evening.
‘You have not told your story,’ Vlad said and she looked at him and then all of a sudden began to blurt it out.
‘I always wanted a father … a father I could talk to and go cycling with, like other girls who cycled with their fathers on Sundays and weren’t afraid. It’s what drew me to my husband Jack … such a kind man … he always brought an umbrella when we went for a walk, because he knew I was fussy about my hair. I was about fifteen when we met in a kitchen garden in West Meath. The raspberries were ripe on their
‘I say the same thing – bottle green.’
‘And what does that signify Fidelma?’
‘It means that they change colour …’
‘You think I am a Don Juan.’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you shivering?’
‘I am a little afraid just now.’
‘Do you want to call the whole thing off?’
‘No, I want it too much, to not want it.’
‘Then we have crossed the Rubicon,’ he says holding his hand out and she shook it and not long after they went down to dinner.
*
As they were late, the dining room had half emptied and so they were offered a choice of tables. Curtains of glass crystals hung on poles, luminous screens dividing different areas of the room and as they walked, hailstones of pink and violet light danced on whatever they could find. A world of shimmer, tall flowers and grasses in huge metal urns, paintings, drawings, a room into which such taste had been poured. He spoke to the maître d’, who led them to a corner table next to a wine rack that was filled with the empty bottles of vintage wines that had been drunk on festive occasions. Vlad reeled off the various names, the chateaux – Meursault 1962, Chassagne-Montrachet 1972, Lynch-Bages, Margaux, while the eager young waiter, who stood in awe, complimented him on his excellent French. The door to the garden was ajar and she felt, or believed she felt, trees and grass and earth drinking in the moisture.
Everything was being done with ceremony.
Vlad looked at the basket of bread, naming the different varieties and then took a slice of rye bread, telling her that a nice combination was to rub warm rye bread with garlic and lemon rind. He had made bread himself, having grown up in that house of women, when various ancestors had died on the battlefield and later his father, who was a partisan, imprisoned as a traitor. All of it so exotic to her. She did not question it. She did not question the fact that he had been born in Alexandria, but that the family had to leave there in the exodus of 1956. She did not question the fact that he had been in a seminary for four years, wishing to be a priest, to walk the terra sacrata . All she wanted was his arms around her.
‘So we start with the bread and the wine Fidelma,’ and he looked into her eyes as if he was seeing her longings and seeing her soul.
To start with they ordered scallops on a bed of chive foam, which the waiter assured them was delicious, ‘’twas like eating gossamer’.
‘Of course, cooking is all science now because of the gadgets we have,’ he added proudly.
‘But the libido is in the taste buds,’ Vlad said and the young boy rushed off, scarlet.
He ate heartily, said he was a behemoth, whereas his companion ate like a bird. The elderly porter was determined not to leave them alone, coming with this and that, first it was a leaflet which he had printed out, with a picture of the stairs that they had been admiring, pointing to the mahogany newel posts, the ash treading and the side panels with forkfuls of dipping hay. The next time it was to tell them about a series of sculptures called ‘LoveLetters’ in a pasture nearby and how he would run them over there in the morning for a quick decko, if they felt inclined. The strange thing was, as he said, that despite the title, there was no lettering at all, just hoops of variously twisted bronze. Fidelma guessed that he sensed they were not man and wife and this gave a piquance to his evening.
‘You have not told your story,’ Vlad said and she looked at him and then all of a sudden began to blurt it out.
‘I always wanted a father … a father I could talk to and go cycling with, like other girls who cycled with their fathers on Sundays and weren’t afraid. It’s what drew me to my husband Jack … such a kind man … he always brought an umbrella when we went for a walk, because he knew I was fussy about my hair. I was about fifteen when we met in a kitchen garden in West Meath. The raspberries were ripe on their
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